


In the Shadows

by wombuttress



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:54:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery. But today is a gift. That's why they call it the present."Warden rogues, a three-way bet, and the perils of romancing the dead.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riverbanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbanks/gifts).



i.

They are very different, the two of them.

The most obvious difference is the height; Sigrun comes to just above his elbow if she stands very straight, and Sigrun does stand straight. In her back is the pride of a legionnaire, an iron core in her spine that keeps her at her tallest even as she casually dismisses her entire self as worthless. Where Nathaniel is ramrod-thin, barely broadening around the shoulders, Sigrun is nothing but presence. No matter how much she tries to fade into the background—pay no attention to the dead woman, please—she just can’t manage it. She’s too bright, too real. Nathaniel, though—he was always getting shouted at as child for sneaking up on people, even if all he was doing was standing there. He could fade into the shadows like no one else. Even now the Warden-Commander is constantly losing track of him.

Upbringing, though that’s only obvious after a few conversations. It makes him feel oddly guilty. Nathaniel’s parents hated each other and weren’t terribly fond of him, either, but at least his uncle never ate any of his pets. The worst Uncle Harald ever did was imbibe too much wine at family dinners and vomit all over the porch.

He wonders, sometimes, if he’d manage to make a better father to his children. Not that he’s likely to have any, anymore.

The way they fight, too. Sigrun is always throwing herself into battle, wearing too-little armor and carrying too-light weapons. Nathaniel’s seen dwarves half his height charge into battle with weapons as big as his entire body mass—in fact, it seems pretty standard for them, according to Oghren—but Sigrun will face an entire horde with nothing but a light shortsword and axe.

It gives Nathaniel a bit of a heart attack, that does.

But that’s the nice thing about being an archer. Any horde Sigrun cares to throw herself to will be half as big by the time it actually reaches her.

 

ii.

But there are similarities, too.

They fight very differently, but when there is need to be stealthy, to scout ahead, the Warden-Commander always sends the two of them. Sigrun can move like a breeze when she needs to. Nathaniel supposes they must have spent a total of hundreds of hours on watch together, throughout their time in the wardens. It’s nice. Sigrun is someone who doesn’t need to talk to fill silence. Anders would have chattered endlessly, and Velanna’s silence would be frosty at best. Sigrun’s silences were warm.

“Dead women tell no tales, right?” she jokes.

They have almost the same coloring, Nathaniel notices. Black hair, pale skin with yellow undertones. It’s the only physical similarity between them, but he fixates on it anyway.

Perhaps it’s because they spend so much time on watch together. It would be impossible not to notice. Yes, that had to be it.

 

iii.

“You seem pouty today.”

“I do? What makes you say that?”

“Well, usually you’re one of the most cheerful dead people I know. Most of them are just zombies and skeletons and the like. You’re a welcome change.”

“Just the weather, I guess. And Anders won’t set that bush on fire for me.”

“Why do you want it to be on fire?”

“So it can be on fire! I dunno!”

“If you wanted, I could set it on fire for you.”

“You couldn’t do it with your fingers, though. That makes it less special.”

“No, but I can do it with an arrow, a firestone, and a bit of oil.”

“Mm…”

“Do you want the bush to be on fire, or not?”

“Alright, yes! Do it!”

 

iv.

The commander was at her paperwork, by the fire, scratching away. There was no real need for her to do it, with the Seneschal available, but she insisted. Said that it calmed her.

Nathaniel found himself unable to concentrate on his book of poisons.

“Do Grey Wardens ever have dances?”

“Dunno,” said the commander. “I’m pretty new to this job. I suppose they have dances if I say so?”

“I see,” he said.

The commander leaned back in her chair and chuckled. “Shit, maybe we should have a dance—a whole grand ball—just so that we can specifically not invite any Orlesians.”

“You realize, of course, that doing so will practically guarantee that at least a dozen of them will show up?”

“Yes, that’s all part of the plan. Once they’re here, we subject them to Ferelden cooking. The bastards will never know what hit ‘em.” The commander tapped her chin. “Why you asking?”

“Just something Sigrun said,” he said vaguely. “She’d look nice in red, don’t you think?”

 

v.

In the end it was a love so ordinary it might easily have been overlooked. It was a love buried under camaraderie, companionship, and simple quiet, a love that faded into the shadows. There were no declarations, no gestures, no stunning realizations.

It fit them, that they could not even precisely pinpoint when the love of comrades had turned to something softer.

The first kiss is exceedingly awkward. Sigrun laughs, and suggests jokingly that Nathaniel fetch her a box to stand on. He panics.

“Really?” he says. “I mean—I could, but—maybe I should just lean down?”

“It’s a joke, Nate.”

“Oh—right.”

And even then, his legendary Howe nose gets in the way, and sweet Maker, he could have sworn that he used to be better at this. It wasn’t as though he was a blushing virgin.

“It’s different,” she says, quietly, “when you care about someone.”

It is, it is.

 

vi.

Sex, it turns out, is even more unbelievably awkward with their physical differences.

“Oh well,” she says, wiping hair away from her forehead. “Guess we’ll just have to practice a whooole bunch.”

“Oh well,” he agrees, grinning.

 

vii.

At breakfast, the commander rolled her eyes, and slid Oghren five sovereigns. The dwarf chuckled, counted them out, and dropped them into his rucksack. He then withdrew a completely different five sovereigns, and slid them to the commander, who pocketed them.

“Is this another one of your inside-jokes from the Blight?” Sigrun queried.

“We both lost the bet,” the commander groused, sitting back. “And so did Anders, so if we ever track him down, he owes us both five sovereigns. And assuming Justice is with him, I’m certain he’ll ensure Anders pays up.”

“What,” Nathaniel began, regretting his question almost as soon as it left his lips, “were you betting on?”

“Romantic drama,” the commander said. “I had my money on you and Velanna.”

“You had what?” the woman in question demanded.

“Had mine on her and Sigrun,” Oghren said.

“What about Anders?” Nathaniel said, aghast.

“Oh, he had his money on himself.”

“With Sigrun?”

“With you.”

“Oh, Maker.” Nathaniel sank onto the table. Sigrun actually giggled, patting him on the arm. “Are we really so obvious?”

“Not at all,” the commander said. “In fact, quite the opposite.” She smiled, sipped her morning tea. “But a mother always knows.”

“You’re not my mother,” Nathaniel protested.

Sigrun flicked his arm. “Hey,” she said. “Don’t talk to your mother that way.”

 

viii.

They read together, when there’s the time and peace for it. The Keep is full of ridiculous old romance novels. Nathaniel never cared for them—they were always Delilah’s purvey—but he was starting to see the appeal of them now.

There’s a delight, in cackling over the awkward turns of phrase together, the absurd plot twists and awkward bits of dialogue, the overwrought sex scenes—and perhaps abandoning the book entirely, when encountering one of those. But sometimes they will find themselves engrossed in a story, a rare gem of escapism in a shared life that is, primarily, killing darkspawn and waiting to kill more darkspawn.

He likes reading to her, because he reads well, and can glance up from the letters easily enough to watch her reactions, which never disappoint. But better yet is when she reads to him. Her literacy is hard-won and consequently, worn with pride. It’s a joy to watch.

It’s practically worth the commander’s judgmental looks upon noticing the novels regularly disappear from the library shelf.

 

ix.

He makes the mistake of mentioning the future one morning. Not children, even—as Wardens, that’s off the table. It might have been a flippant comment about wedding bells.

Sigrun snorts, laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know that was never an option.”

He hadn’t been serious—or at least, not really serious, not right there in that moment, though one day, who knew—but suddenly he sits up in bed. “Well, why not?”

She only looks at him, and shakes her head, amused. “You humans, always so entitled. You know why, Nathaniel.”

“No, I don’t know. I don’t know at all.”

“Because I’m already dead,” she explains, slowly, as though to a child. “The only thing in my future is darkspawn. Sooner or later, a Hurlock or something is going to cut me down, and it’ll be fine, because that’s what my life is for.”

“Not if I shoot it first it won’t,” he protests.

“Yeah, but what about the next one, or the one after that? It’s inevitable.”

“I’ll shoot those ones, too.”

“You’ll run out of arrows.”

He can’t think of a clever response to that. He was never quick or clever, never one for wit. He’s not like Anders, who could hide fear and pain through humor. Nathaniel is stuck with plain old fear and pain.

She looks guilty, like she hadn’t realized that he hadn’t realized. “Did you…did you really think what we had would last?”

“I…”

After all, she’s right. She may be a Legionnaire, but they are both Wardens. They are both of them death-marked. Perhaps Sigrun is just more aware of it than most.

“Well, we’re not dead yet, are we?” he says, sounding manic even to himself. “And tomorrow, we might not be dead tomorrow, too. And the day after that. Enough days of not being dead—that’s living, isn’t it?”

She’s gazing at him with mixed love and pity, as though she wasn’t buying what he was selling, but would have really liked to. “Oh, cheer up, gloomboy,” she says finally. “You’re kinda getting me down.”

 

x.

“You’re angry with me.” She says it, matter-of-fact, but he can hear the slight tightness in her voice that indicated a much deeper level of distress than she let on.

“No, I’m not,” he replied mildly.

“You’ve barely talked to me all week.”

She’s got him there, and he’s not much of a liar. He’s racking his mind for something to say and coming up with nothing.

“Look, it’s okay,” she preempts. “I didn’t expect this to last, and if you want it to be over, that’s fine with me. I’m not…really much of a partner, to anyone. But don’t just blindside me like this. Say it to my face. I want to still talk to you. Unless—you don’t want even that. Which is okay. Really. But just—tell me, please?”

“I do want to talk to you,” he says quietly.

He sees a kind of muted panic in her eyes. “Well—if it’s all this, I don’t know, being together stuff, that’s making you avoid me, then maybe it’s better to end it.”

“No!” He stands suddenly, rattling the table. “No, we don’t have to—unless that’s what you really want, of course—”

“I don’t! But I can’t offer you a future, Nathaniel. I thought you realized that.”

“Then fine! Fine, I don’t need a future. I just need you.”

Sigrun actually laughs, snorting.

He boggles. “Are you—laughing at me? Are you serious?”

“No, it’s just—oh, Stone, you sound just like one of those romance novels we read.”

He colors, rubs the back of his head. “I…suppose I do.”

Sigrun sighs, the laughter gone. “You can’t really want me, now that you realize.”

“I can, and I do.”

“Even with no future?”

“Who cares about the future?” he blurts. “Nobody really has the future. Nobody knows what will happen to them. Some people just have the luxury of pretending they do. We don’t. And I’m alright with that. Moment to moment, I can live with it—if you can.”

It takes her a while to respond, avoiding his earnest gaze. “I guess I can,” she says finally.

 

xi.

It is a year to the day of that conversation, and they are not dead yet. They are on patrol somewhere in the ass end of Ferelden, and it is raining.

"I never did get used to this," Sigrun says in quiet wonder, pressing closer. Nathaniel raises his cloak over her, shielding her from the worst of the rain.

"Nor I," he says vaguely.

She laughs. "You never got used to rain? What, did you stay so often in your big human castle that you never saw it as a child?"

"What?" he starts. "Oh, the rain. Right. Uh."

She pushes him into a puddle and laughs for about as long as it takes him to pull her down with him.

 

xii.

Three years after that conversation, and they are trapped in the Deep Roads near Kirkwall.

"Maybe this is it," Sigrun says. "Maybe this is how we finally die."

"Really thought it was going to be the wyvern from last week," Nathaniel says dully, "but at least we're together."

She smiles and takes his hand as their meager fire burns lower. "At least there's that."

But they do not die, then, because not an hour later a hopeless fight suddenly becomes less hopeless with the arrival of another group of travellers--and behind them, word and ragged and looking so _serious,_ glowing with an inner fire--

"Anders?"

"Nathaniel? Sigrun!"

" _Justice?!"_

They're only missing Velanna, Oghren and the Warden-Commander.

"She's been worried sick about you two, you know," Nathaniel says sternly.

"And you owe her and Oghren five sovereigns," Sigrun adds.

"I do?" Anders says, confused, and then notes the dozen little things that had seemed invisible until a moment ago. His voice takes on a deep rumbling quality. "I do," Justice says seriously.

 

xiii.

Four years, and they are bidding the Commander goodbye. She is rattling off not-quite-orders, instructions and directives and a hundred indications to stay safe.

"And mind that Velanna doesn't hurt herself, and that the Nugget is doing well, and that the Keep doesn't fall over while I'm gone--I may be gone a long while, this time--"

"We will, we will."

"Oh, and before we forget," Sigrun rummages in the bottom of her pack and produces five sovereigns. "From Anders, and Justice."

The Commander's face is blank for a moment, and then she laughs and laughs, slumping with a flavor of relief. "Keep the money. Take care of yourselves, won't you?"

She hugs them both tight. "And more importantly, take care of each other."

 

xiv.

Seven years and the Calling beckons.

It is all Nathaniel can do to keep Sigrun from throwing herself into the nearest hole that might lead to some darkspawn.

It's a trick, it's a _trick,_ he tells her, over and over, because he hears it, too, so does Oghren, so does Velanna, and it can't be that they're all hearing it at once, it doesn't make any _sense._

He still nearly fails, but in the end they clutch each other and stay in the sunlight for a while longer.

Nathaniel ranks highest at Vigil's Keep now. The orders from the Orlesian Wardens stand, but they are not Orlesians. "We're getting to the bottom of this," Nathaniel says, through grit teeth as the nails-on-chalkboard sound scrapes across his mind, too ugly-beautiful to be ignored. They send a message ahead to the Warden-Commander, and make for Weisshaupt.

 

xv.

Ten years and the Calling is silent, Weisshaupt stands half-ruined, and the Anderfels sunrise is ridiculously beautiful. Demons do not pour from the sky, and nobody is currently killing each other. The past few years have been one disaster after another, and something on the horizon bodes ill yet, but the Commander had spoken to them the previous night, and the cure seems...not only possible, now, but likely.

The mark of death will not be long upon them, now.

"Makes me nervous, that does," Sigrun says. "Don't feel quite at home, without something horrible happening all the time."

"Cheer up and watch the sunrise, you zombie."

"Whatever, gloomboy."

They watch the sunrise.

"Have you thought," Sigrun says, slowly, "what this, this cure business, what it means for us?"

Nathaniel had thought of practically nothing else. "I thought we didn't discuss the future in this relationship."

Sigrun pinks. "That was ten years ago, Nate."

"Yes, and for those ten years, we have not discussed the future. I was good on my word, wasn't I?"

"But--I mean--it's different now, isn't it?" Over a decade in sunlight has leeched the paleness from Sigrun's skin. Nathaniel still sunburns easier than a newborn.

Yes, it is different, he thinks, completely different, but he won't dare consider that yet--won't dare consider the vaguest concept of peace, or children, or a nice cottage in the countryside. They are things he has become far too good at not thinking about.

The future, he thinks, will come when it comes, regardless of what they do or say or think about it.

"We can talk about that later. Let's just watch the sunrise."

Ten years on, and they watch the sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://wombuttress.tumblr.com/)   
>  [my oc blog.](http://pile-of-dragon-filth.tumblr.com/)


End file.
